


Vignettes

by kloppinthekop



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Angst, Character Study, Gen, Light Angst, Liverpool, Liverpool F.C., M/M, Multi, Songfic, hendollana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kloppinthekop/pseuds/kloppinthekop
Summary: For the meandering one-shots or ideas that never quite unfurled into full stories. Because who needs plot? Just character studies and description—only random, angsty, florid, quotidian, un-beta’ed description.(To be updated in the future only sporadically, if at all. Will update rating if necessary.)01 •takumi• Second day at Anfield • Daemon!fic aka His Dark Materials/Football RPF fusion (Gen)02 •turf• Lallana leaving LFC, but choosing a certain squad number for familiarity... (Hendollana)03 •tickertape• After the trophy lift, Hendo searches for a tangible piece of memory... (Hendollana)
Relationships: Jordan Henderson/Adam Lallana
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. takumi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first one-shot is a His Dark Materials fusion fic. If you are unfamiliar with daemons/Philip Pullman’s HDM universe, here is my brief attempt at explaining them: daemons are the external manifestation of a person’s soul, having taken form as an animal—somewhat like a witch’s familiar perhaps, but even more intimately and physically linked. They often mimic the behavior of the human but do seem to act independently at times. Daemons can shift forms from one animal to another when the person is still a child, changing at will to fit certain circumstances or moods, but eventually settles into a permanent form once the child becomes an adult/passes through puberty. The animal form that the daemon takes usually indicates something intrinsic about the human/about who they are, but they are typically of different gender to the human (i.e. here Takumi's daemon would be female). Humans and their daemons are inextricably linked; to hurt one is to hurt the other, and the two beings (or I suppose they are the same being across two bodies) cannot be too far from one another without it causing considerable pain or even death. Daemons can usually speak to anyone and interact with other daemons, but it is generally taboo for a human to touch another’s daemon without permission, or vice versa. (This is probably more information than is necessary to understand this tiny vignette of a fic, but in case I write any more daemon!AU fics I’ll just put the whole blurb here.) Here’s the [Wikipedia entry](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%A6mon_\(His_Dark_Materials\)) for more in-depth details.

Nara bows her head reverently to nibble on a few blades of grass, thoughtfully grazing from an area of the pitch that is designated out of bounds. The missing tuft is barely perceptible, but Takumi is still surprised at her actions. They were not raised to take or to be selfish, and there are no grounds-people around to ask at this time. (He wonders if they are on lunch break, as Nara seems to have decided for herself, intent on tasting each and every piece of grass that she chews.)

It was their second day in Liverpool. Day One had been full of medical exams and meetings, photograph sessions, and other such appointments for the benefit of the press and marketing teams. But the manager—for whom he has come to play and from whom he is eager to learn—has made sure that Takumi would have some time to acclimate on his own today. Taki has met the staff briefly, everyone being so nice—Carol and Caroline returning his polite bow with kind hands gathering him into a big hug—but it is nice to be alone with his closest companion, taking in the grounds together.

His daemon was a doe; quite fitting given that her name sounded like Nara Park, so full of friendly and mischievous deer in his home country of Japan. How beautifully content she looked whilst chewing her greens against a backlit, cloudy morning in England. Liverpool.

On the surface he too seemed calm, but he was shy, and meeting so many new people at once had taken its toll on him. He wondered if by eating the grass of Anfield she was reflecting his anxious mood.

Reading him with her large soft eyes, she addresses Takumi, nudging closer to his side. “This is for us, Taki-kun. We have to feel that we belong.” Her voice is gentle, but firm. They had spoken to one another earlier about their nerves, hushed and huddled in the team car sent for them, but there is no trace of that now in her familiar voice. “We have to feel that Anfield is part of us.”

He lowers his eyes, and she nuzzles his side encouragingly. “I think everyone here wants that for us too. Do not be afraid. We ask permission from the spirit of this stadium to fill us with this city’s love, so we belong to it, and it belongs to us.”

Takumi is touched by this action and these words, now understanding her intentions. As her nostrils quiver at the slightest of breezes, he in turn kneels on the soft, lush green of the sidelines. Pressing his forehead to the pitch, he breathes in its smell. Deeply, he inhales. He takes in the feeling of belonging to this new team, these new grounds, this new city. Deeply, he takes Anfield into himself; not quite as Nara had done (physically), but instead on the more spiritual level that her actions symbolize.

With a tickle of grass on his brow, he whispers “Liverpool” into the ground, and feels that it too whispers into him.

Later will be a time for booming applause. Later still will be the strange silence of near-empty stands, devoid of fans. He will grasp the big defender Virgil’s hand in celebration of a goal and receive a cheeky slap to the back of his head by Sadio, who is always so nice in getting Taki to interact with the boys. They are at least all together, but there is a void without the supporters, the loudness of Anfield filled to the brim. But his teammates—teammates still a bit new to him by that time—do their best, and he smiles in celebration of their goals as they inch closer to the trophy lift. He does his best too.

And later, during practice for their last match of the season, he will bow his head once again to the earth and breathe in the smell of freshly mown grass, remembering the smell of champagne and firework smoke from nights before. He will breathe in Liverpool, and think: Nara, we are taking in this city. Nara, who snuffles as he thinks this, breathing his next thought together with Takumi: we, here, are starting to feel at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not quite sure how playing football would work with daemons involved. My logic is that, given that athletes undergo such strenuous training of all kinds (physical, mental), it would make sense that the most elite sportspeople would also train to allow further distances from their daemons than the typical human/daemon pairing would normally be able to withstand. I just can’t imagine everyone’s daemons running or flying alongside them on the pitch—imagine how much chaos would ensue. Could explain the incidents of cats and dogs and squirrels running onto the pitch though! 
> 
> Anyways, I’ve always meant to write a daemon!fic for the football fandom. Here is my humble offering. Any comments/kudos are much appreciated, as always.


	2. turf

This is the last time he will step off the practice turf as a Red, he realizes.

Of course, he’s really known for a while now, but it is in this moment that the feeling finally sinks in.

Adam clutches at the framed collage the team has gifted him, letting one of the corners dig into his thigh. The edge presses just hard enough that the skin stays red even after he readjusts the frame under his arm, dislodging it from that balance point. Only fitting, really.

Red. He wonders, if he presses hard enough, if maybe it will bruise blue tomorrow.

Again… only fitting.

They—he, or Liverpool F.C.; he supposes the distinction between the two doesn’t much matter, until he at last departs—haven’t announced it to the press yet, but everyone behind the scenes knows where he will be headed after the contract lapses. But what he hasn’t told everyone, what maybe he hasn’t yet told a certain someone, is that he knows exactly what he will look like and what it will feel like to put on that new shirt. The unfamiliar blue (something new) to be offset by a familiar number (something old, something borrowed). Not his own, but, in effect, a piece of home.

Brighton & Hove Albion.

14.

Not Liverpool. But… in this way, taking a piece of what made Liverpool family, what make the memories so bittersweet.

(Love.)

He doesn’t have to say it out loud, he reasons.

It’s worn not on his sleeve per se, but certainly on his back.

It’s his little sign that, though they may have grown apart over the years, and though they may grow farther still with the now-geographical distance, Jordan can never be too far from his heart.

Sappy, he knows. And if he cries during his last interview, speaking of his captain and friend (and he dare not say what else), it’s not something that can be helped. Nor could he want to hide it now, after the struggles he has admitted, some more openly than others.

He’s not sure how he could be more sentimental. But he’s given up trying to look brave, the thing that had driven a wedge between him and Jordan during the most trying times. Giving up that façade was what brought them closer together afterwards, after all, and he’s loathe to give up the lessons learnt from those trials.

So maybe it’s just a number, to some.

But it’s not just a number, to him.

To Jordan?

Or to Adam?

The distinction doesn’t match matter, until at last… he departs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(
> 
> Soz, this was supposed to be a happy ficlet when I started off writing but... the feelings took over. In truth it makes me smile that he chose the number 14, just like his captain, oh his captain. Well, I suppose, his captain no longer...
> 
> Dangit, I'm not good at happy things.
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated.


	3. tickertape

Jordan reaches down to pluck a piece of red tickertape up off the Anfield grass. (If he were a true seer of his heart, he would know that what he searches for won’t be found out here. That what he really wants to hold is not an object, that what he wants has long left the field… But in any case, Jordan is not good at emotions—they’re not a battle he can win—so these repressed thoughts don’t even cross his mind.)

After scanning the words on the strip of paper, he lets it fall back down to earth, kneeling down again to select another one between his fingers.

Confident that Divock—the only other lad out there so late—isn’t paying him any mind _(how long have we been here?)_ , he continues his actions, now sifting through a sea of red. He uses his index and middle finger to flick away a few, two or three or four at a time. Each discarded with a quick glance, some sort of logic driving this madness. One by one he sends another slip swirling through the air, using a motion like one a person would use to swipe through photos on a phone. Flicking through memories. Attempting to access a certain feeling, something unnamed and—at the same time—attached to a very specific, familiar name.

_(I’m going to stick around; I’m not going anywhere. But who do I think I’m kidding? I’m still standing in the same place where you left me standing.)_

Only he knows what he is looking for, and he seems content to keep at it until he has found whatever elusive object he’s been seeking.

At last, he finds it, letting the rest of the pile fall in a small flurry of color. The one left in his palm elicits a small smile. It is almost like the tiny slip of paper has been waiting for him to find it among the masses.

_(I am easy to find.)_

The staff at Anfield had gotten specialty tickertape in an attempt to bring some piece of the fans to the lads: each slip of red paper read out fans’ short messages and names of the entire squad, including those who really hadn’t qualified for medals but deserved them as much as anyone: the backroom staff, Carol and Caroline… everyone.

But for him, there was only one name amongst the bunch. Only one that he had been searching for, with a patience that typified his career, his captaincy, his overall approach to everything. And as he tucks that fragile wisp of paper away into the pocket of his bomber jacket—the night air having turned crisp enough for that—he mouths the name and the message silently to himself.

“Adam Lallana. Thank you. Once and Always a Red.”

Always a Red. His name, in red, forever. Jordan wants to believe it but…

_(Towers to the skies, an academy of lies.)_

He knows that any minute now, he will have to let go.

But it’s not yet time to say goodbye. And yet he sees it in Adz, in his eyes, in the glances of the younger lads who looked up to him. When they had celebrated, there was a moment when the joy had slipped, just a bit. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But, the same feeling that was in everyone else’s faces… it just wasn’t in his eyes.

So they haven’t yet said goodbye. He’s not sure he wants to track down Adam right now. Not sure Adam would want him to either. _If I tried, you’d probably be hard to find._ But it will be all too soon, and he doesn’t know if he has the words.

_(If you ever come around this way again, you’ll see me standing in the sunlight in the middle of the street. I am easy to find. I’m still waiting for you every night, with tickertape.)_

So he steals words from the earth, from the remains of their celebratory revels. He wants to make sure that, long after this sleepness night, he will still have a small piece of Adam to keep. To battle off the waves of loneliness, the miles that expand every day as the conversation will inevitably begin to dwindle, to compensate for the many days that they are “too busy” to talk. Too tired to bridge the distance.

_There’s a million little battles that I’m never gonna win anyway  
_ _I’m still waiting for you every night with ticker tape, ticker tape._

Until then, until he comes back to Anfield, he will have to wait with tickertape.

To have and to hold.

Until then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this vignette at the same time that I wrote the other two. But something in me made me hold this one back; I felt like it needed something more. Then, the other day when I was listening to The National’s I Am Easy to Find album, the bridge in [the titular track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_0CiipU2VE) caught me by surprise, although I had heard it a thousand times before: 
> 
> _There’s a million little battles that I’m never gonna win anyway / I’m still waiting for you every night with ticker tape, ticker tape._
> 
> Having already named the vignette “Tickertape” a week ago, these lyrics struck me particularly strongly, and I ended up adding a few other lyrics (in parentheses) throughout the fic. There's also a line from "[Hard to Find](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9GTj1bhFn3s)," from an earlier album by The National. I sometimes find songfics a bit cloying, so I hope I managed to integrate Matt Berninger’s lyrics without being overbearing.
> 
> Comments and kudos much appreciated, as always.


End file.
